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Monday, July 17, 2017

Three Dietary Measures to Protect Against Dying from Colorectal (Colon) Cancer

My younger brother Mark never arrived home last evening until almost 9:30 p.m. I was just about to tune in the season premiere of Zoo.

Without a word ─ beyond muttering to himself ─ he fetched something to eat, and was then seated at the dining table with a direct view of the T.V., but out of sight by me.

Anon I grew suspicious of his silence; and in looking, saw that he had passed out. He wasn't slumped over the table; rather, he was simply seated in his chair, with his shoulders sagging and his head sunk low.

And there he remained. I was in bed at 11:05 p.m., and he was still at the dining table passed out. Once he got himself to bed, his Monday morning would be starting at 4:30 a.m. when his clock-radio summoned him to a new workday.

One might wonder why I would leave him like this when I go to bed. And it is really quite simple.

I believe that in the past seven evenings that he has been home, he drank until he passed out on at least five of those evenings. He chooses this ─ no one makes him drink that much.

And thus, if this is what he wants to do most of his evenings, then he deserves to have all of the consequences of his utter stupidity.

I will not abet this folly by helping him find whatever needed physical comfort he should have in bed by rallying him from where he has chosen to pass out.

It's one thing if these episodes were almost one-off, but they are commonplace.

Just prior to getting myself to bed, I received a text from my wife Jack who let me know that she would be home from Vancouver sometime today.

Anyway, once I was in bed, sleep refused to speedily embrace me. I suppose some of that is attributable to the effect Mark's antics had on me. But also, I had left the front door unlocked.

My youngest stepson Poté was not yet home, and so I felt that it was kindest to leave the door's state in Mark's hands ─ he could lock up when he went to bed if Poté was not yet home.

But would he? That is the question. He might be so befogged mentally that it would not occur to him.

As I lay there in bed with earplugs in place, I became aware of a glow illuminating the room and what I recognized as likely being my cell phone sounding from where it was lying on the floor near my bed.

I quickly swept it up, believing that it was likely my wife Jack; but it was Poté. He requested that I leave the door unlocked because he didn't have his key, and estimated that he would be home in less than 10 minutes.

I checked the time ─ it was 11:47 p.m.

I dutifully rose to find the downstairs in darkness ─ Mark had at some point gone to bed. The door was locked, so I unlocked it, and returned to bed and my earplugs.

When sleep finally arrived for me, I cannot say. It certainly wasn't especially long-lasting. Just after 4:30 a.m. I considered using the bathroom, but then it dawned upon me that Mark might already be up and about to shower.

I had some water by my bed, so I drank a few swallows.

The next time I checked the time, I was surprised to see that it may have been after 6:40 a.m. Time for me to rise.

I didn't feel particularly well rested. And when I visited the bathroom, I noted that I could not smell my eldest son Tho's cologne ─ evidence that he had not gotten up for work.

And so it was.

And my day immediately soured. My stepsons will just not allow me time in peace at home by myself, and I powerfully resent it. It's bad enough to have to put up with them all weekend, but to rob me of my workdays, too?

He skipped work on Tuesday and Wednesday of last week; and Poté had Friday off.

Poté normally has Tuesdays off, so he'll most likely be home tomorrow.

Truly, this is aggravating beyond any words that I have at my disposal. It's bad enough that there is no peace and solitude outside of the house here in the City of Surrey; but I am also denied it on far too many days here at home, too.

And by two working stepsons who have not contributed a cent towards the monthly mortgage or any other house-related expenses thus far this year.

Poté was still in bed when I went downstairs to make my day's first hot beverage, but he was soon enough to rise and in fact was out the front door to his car by 7:02 a.m.

I got busy beginning the build on an old post I am editing at my hosted website My Retirement Dream. If I had not been at such a low physical ebb, I would have broken off that work to go out to the backyard tool shed for some exercise, but I simply did not have the basic drive to contend with it.

And so I kept at work on the post until I had accomplished the self-assigned content quota for today. But I still didn't have it in me to deal with the strain of some serious exercise.

Fortunately, although the day was sunny, the morning was strikingly cool to me. I undressed and resorted to five or 10 minutes back in bed; and then I rallied myself, getting back up and dressing in shorts and a sleeveless top.

I had the full workout session, but I took longer than is normal because of needed extended rest breaks.

Incidentally, I initially detected a vague skunk odour in the shed ─ perhaps one had been beneath it, or possibly still was. I had thought last evening that I may have spooked one over near the side of the house when I stepped outside to expectorate some coconut oil that I had used in brushing my teeth (I typically take around 15 minutes for that task).

I could not clearly see what the creature was ─ just some exaggerated and clumsy slow movement that rustled some plant debris there. A startled cat would have swiftly and agilely sped off, so this was no cat.

But as I was saying, I had my exercise, and came back into the house ahead of 10:30 a.m. to see that Tho was at the boys' computer in their den area. I prepared myself my first meal of the day, and enjoyed it here at my computer.

It is now 12:32 p.m. If I was home alone, I would undertake some sunning on the backyard sundeck. But with Tho home ─ and me now with a somewhat meal-distended belly ─ I do not feel up to that level of exposure. Rather, I will just seat myself out in a chair in the yard proper and confront the Sun for about 40 minutes.

...Well, I started my time in the Sun at 12:58 p.m., and derived just over 40 minutes.

I want now to post this old photo ─ the description beneath it is from the Google album where I have the scan filed:

A photo from the collection of my younger brother Mark taken sometime from 1974 to 1976.

If ever I knew this young fellow, I now forget him.

I believe that he is involved in pantomiming during a game such as Charades.

I came across a couple of articles a week ago that I never realized at the time actually complemented each other, for each spoke of a different study which each identified a dietary means of preventing this deadly cancer.

I cannot seem to make myself buy tree nuts ─ they cost too damned much, and my limited monthly pension has enough drains on it. I was disappointed that peanuts didn't have the desired effect, for I eat quite a lot of the stuff.

I have no idea when to expect my wife Jack ─ it could be that she will show up in the latter afternoon, or else the early or late evening.

Since she may yet be home this afternoon, I feel I should close now with this journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

SATURDAY, July 17, 1976

Up at 7:15 a.m., though I arose once or twice through the night to drink.

It's sunny out, so I guess I'll have to do some sunning today.

I typed up Jean a letter to be mailed when I go up the tracks for solar exposure. I'm leaving at 11:30 a.m.

My lunch was similar to breakfast (yogurt mixed with apples, grapes, and pitted cherries), but with the addition of tomatoes. Truly delicious, but most conducive to gas generation.

While out to sun, I indulged in several handfuls of berries.

My pizza supper wasn't up to par; I blame the strange Norwegian norvegia cheese. After tomorrow I plan to bake bread and just cook hamburgers week-ends.

My sunburn is satisfactorily extensive, but comfortable. I doubt I'll be able to bear any basking tomorrow.

I must write that I think Fawlty Towers is about as hilarious as a comedy can get.

Earlier I planned on a good walk tonight; then I scrapped that in favour of a work-out at Queen's Park; but my ultimate decision was to retire at 10:00 p.m.

May my sunburn serve the intended purposes!

Since adolescence, my skin's complexion is such that I have only ever looked really good when I have been nicely coloured by the Sun. I am otherwise naturally pasty in hue, and complexion imperfections abound.

The letter I typed up in the morning was to Jean M. Martin (née Black), an American pen-pal. I sure wish that I could know whatever became of her. She had aspirations of becoming a comic-book artist.

The afternoon sunning had to be done out of the public eye ─ I was far too inhibited otherwise.

So from New Westminster, I would hike over the Pattullo Bridge, and then turn right onto Scott Road (120th Street) as may be discerned on this Google map.

If you zoom up the map by one factor like this, you should be able to make out where the railway tracks I was bound for crossed Scott Road just before Larson and Lien Roads.

I would turn onto the railway tracks and then seek a secluded spot hidden away in a field that used to exist all along that stretch at the left of the tracks as one trudged towards Old Yale Road.

The field had a fair amount of shrubbery and some small trees. I have no idea what that area is like today ─ I have not been on that stretch of railway tracks for probably at least 20 years.

I cannot remember now how far I would strip down. Often I only went topless, but if I was truly secluded, I might risk getting down to my underwear...or maybe I brought shorts to change into. It was too long ago to recall.

The pizza I made ─ or at least the crust ─ was prepared just as would be the bread I wrote about. I made it all from scratch using whole wheat flour and yeast.

I gather from how that journal entry wound up that activity aspirations I had for the evening did not come to pass, and I instead had a relatively early evening.

While I have been recounting the details of that journal entry, my wife Jack twice texted me to go downstairs and locate meat from the fridge icebox ─ stewing beef the first time, and chicken drumsticks the second time.

To my thinking, this means that she likely plans to be home early enough to do some cooking. Otherwise if she was just going to be home late in the evening, she could have fetched the meat herself and let it thaw overnight.